Many Trials
by Clarenova
Summary: Maybe Glorfindel threw himself after the balrog by choice, even after it fell. The reciprocations of that possible action, and thus reason for his return. A/U, Glorfindel paradox.


::Many Trials:: 

Disclaimer: It's all Tolkien's. 

A/N: Maybe Glorfindel threw himself after the balrog by choice, even after it fell. The reciprocations of that possible action, and thus reason for his return. A/U, Glorfindel paradox. 

* 

Smoke billowed from the wasted city. Terror reigned, and dragons and balrogs roamed free. Wolves bayed their victory to the skies. All searching for their prey, destroying everything in their path. The white city was no more. Rock and stone lay scattered upon once beautiful roads. Gone. Barren and black, the charred gates lay broken. Remains of the population fled, hysterical. The orange sun rose in the east[1], tainting the sky red, but a reflection of the massacre below. 

A smouldering, ripped banner flapped in the quiet breeze. A deathly peace settled upon the Square of the King. Off-white flower petals lay crushed and stained with red, floating serenely on the black waters of the King's Fountain. The water was calm, hiding the dead that sunk to its fathomless deeps. Speckles of dust and soot were scattered on the broken statuettes. The Gates of Summer[2] closed. 

Shadow and flame ransacked what was left of the craftsmanship of the Noldor. Noble houses were crushed, high towers pulled down. The shadow of winged evil fell upon the tower of Turgon as it crumbled. 

Then Gondolin was as it was to be; all but a memory of Elven Tirion.[3] No strength then remained in the hollow walls. 

Numbness overwhelmed what was left of the Gondolindrim. A proud people now beaten, ragged and weary as they flew from the carnage, moving north. The way was secret. The way was safe. Strangled sobs of child and mother echoed loudly in the dark, the air growing thinner. The passage way was dim and narrow, long and hard. The atmosphere was stale. What remained of the Captains of Gondolin urged their kin onwards. [4] 

At the back stood Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Blood was matted in the tangles of his once fair hair that lay strewn across mail clad shoulders. In his left hand he held a long dagger, stained with gore, and in his right he clutched his sword. His pale face was weary but alert, features almost blurred in soot and dust. Wounds covered his form, but the lord still moved on. He had to get them out. 

Eärendil whimpered in fevered sleep, held in the arms of his father. Egalmoth gathered his people around Celebrindal, forming her guard while Legolas of the Tree, who was brightest of eye, went in front. Galdor's men made up the main body of the refugees, and they were evenly spread out between the mass of bodies as they crept ever upwards. 

No words were spoken as the group finally reached the end of the way. The steam from the heated waters of the fountains sank low in the vale of Tumladen, a choking mist. They groped blindly in the haze where even the sharpest of elven eyes could not see, and carefully made their ascent. Many were weakened by shock, but driven by desperation and fuelled by despair, they moved onwards. 

Many were drowning in sorrow. Ecthelion was lost, and Turgon also. Valiant houses were no more. Of the Fountain, only a dozen remained, and of the House of the Mole, none. Salgant and Maeglin were dead, but that brought no comfort. The march moved onwards. 

The black heights of Angband reared in the distance, and the Pass of Cirith Thoronath lay before them. Glorfindel struggled to get the group up to the narrow ledge, where they stopped at last. The Flower Lord looked in despair at the sight before him. 

The pass was narrow, more narrow than any would have liked. Two elves of small stature could have possibly passed at the same time, and the way was long. A high precipice on the right cast a deep shadow onto the gorge on the left. But there was no other choice. Gathering what courage and energy that was left in him, Glorfindel turned to his people. 

'We must move on. There is no hope for us here. The Pass is our only chance,' Glorfindel was surprised at the evenness of his tone. His hand trembled slightly, knuckles white from gripping his weapons. Women wailed in bleak resignation. 

Tuor came up to him. 'The people are weary. The path is too dangerous in this state,' 

'Then what would you have me do?' Glorfindel spun around, anger and pain flaring in his eyes, 'Leave my people to fall into darkness? Morgoth looms ever in the North, and there is nothing but barren waste to the south. If we were to wait any longer, night will wall, and as you said, our people are weak. They would die ere the next dawn.' 

Tuor stepped back, startled. The Man had never seen Glorfindel so angered, so frustrated. There were almost tears in the elf's eyes. The elven lord stepped closer to him, desperation raw in his voice as he spoke in hushed but hurried tones. 

'We cannot linger. The sun is at its highest now, and we must take advantage of that. Cirith Thoronath is perilous by day, but by night there stands no chance for us. We are high in the mountains, Tuor, and the air here is too thin even now. When Arnor sets, even we, the elves, cannot stand for the cold that will sweep down the mountainside,' There he paused, and turned to look at his resting people. 

'Morgoth's hand reaches far here. The Encircling Mountains offer us no protection, only peril. There is foreboding in my mind's eye, and something urges me onwards. If we leave now, we may reach the Vale of Sirion. At least there we might be offered some protection. But now Angband looms too close. I will swear this to you: I will see your kin to safety.' 

The Man looked at Glorfindel, surprised. Oaths were not made lightly, not after the Exile of the Noldor. Then Tuor cast his eyes about, and knew that Glorfindel was right. Together, they pushed the elves onwards. 

* 

The company made slow progress, but they were moving still even as the moon rose. Glorfindel was just about to step carefully around another bend when the shriek of orcs rose in the air. 

_Ambush! Ambush from behind!_

In a flash, Glorfindel's long blade flared blue as he spun around, and the Enemy was upon them. From the front, the House of the Tree spent their last arrows on the approaching orcs, and Egalmoth pushed Idril and Eärendil behind him, standing with Glorfindel. The enemy host soon proved too great, however, and the Gondolindrim were forced to move further upwards. 

Then a tremor shook the ground, and a balrog was unleashed. Fire danced to the heavens as the demon of Thangorodrim ascended from hell. 

Glorfindel did not know what madness took him then, but wrath and grief washed over him, and he saw nothing but the beast. Eyes flashing wildly, he tore himself free from the restraining hands of his fellow captain and leapt up onto the pinnacle of the rock on which the balrog stood before his men could do aught. 

Fiery wings unfolded, sending smoke and flame everywhere. A black whip cracked, but Glorfindel danced out of the way, senses burning in an effort not to get killed. A howl was torn from the throat of the dark creature as the golden haired elf lord slashed his blade downwards across its arm, and it clawed in fury at the elf lord. Mail and armour deflected the blow as the golden lord shone in the darkness, madness, anguish and hysterical delirium raging to the surface. Pained malaise faded into nothingness as he blade shone brighter, sensing its owner's frenzy. The balrog had never seen such fury from a Firstborn, standing alone against his terrible countenance, and it feared Glorfindel. In quick, darting movements, Glorfindel hewed the black helm from its head, yelling in Quenya and putting forth all his hidden prowess. The elf ducked a swipe from the balrog's whip, and as it brought its arm back up, Glorfindel hacked downwards, the momentum severing the limb. With a shriek of rage, the balrog blindly grappled at Glorfindel's right shoulder as it swayed dangerously. Glorfindel jumped backwards and regained his footing. 

He stood for just a fleeting instant, knowing that the balrog was almost at its end, and then thought, _What use it this? What ends could we possibly reach? We are eldar. We are not meant to die._

The balrog caught its footing on a rock. Glorfindel swayed as if under a spell. Flashes of battle and misery bore him down into bleakness, hope slowly being extinguished and the ache from his now dislocated right arm rushing in to fill the space left by adrenaline. Ecthelion drowning. His House being torn down. His people, crushed. Turgon falling. 

_And so maybe we are not meant to live, either. But for the sake of others. For the sake of what remains. For suicide. For my own selfish reasons. To receive the Gift of Man._

So for a while hope was diminished, and light for a moment died as Glorfindel, most beloved of the Lords of Gondolin, drew forth his dirk with his left hand, for he was ambidextrous and well trained in combat, and flung himself downwards towards the belly of the beast and plunged the blade in. 

* 

But even in death Glorfindel's trials were not at end. For his time was not yet come, and he alone of the eldalië was born again and returned to Ennore, sent back to complete his task. To fulfil his oath to Tuor's people, and to protect what was left of the Line of Eärendil. 

Purged of what sins he made, Glorfindel relived, wiser, older and greater. It became a fact that somewhere deep inside himself, where suicide and death raged against honour and courage, Glorfindel knew that he had given up and fallen into depression. In the time it took for him to be released from Mandos, Glorfindel was hurt, hurt more than he had ever been by any physical or psychological means, and healed again. Discovering at once that in immortality, selfishness sometimes equated selflessness. Mandos taught him never to deny truth and fact. In Vaire's halls, he passed by tapestries, endless threads of elves and men. There he saw folly and injustice, but most of all he saw himself, and saw the foolishness of his sacrifice, knowing that in living forever, one cannot be killed by blade or claw or demon flesh but rather by one's self. By himself. 

He passed by the lives of Eärendil, Elwing, Galadriel, Maglor, Maedhros and other elves of greater stature than he, and lived humbled by their sacrifices. Earendil gave himself away for Ennore and Elwing gave herself to save him. Maglor and Maedhros both forsook the Curse to end their madness, giving Ennore peace. 

And himself? He knew that he had given himself, but for what cause? The balrog had teetered upon the edge of death, and yet he had flung himself down after it in fear of it rising again. For his selfish reasons to stop the massacre of his people, and at the same time end his own misery. Glorfindel knew what he had committed was suicide, so what had he given himself for? An unnecessary suicide in the history of the Eldar was unheard of. 

So maybe a greater cause, a greater purpose, in which the score of the Valar had not yet been twined into the Song of the World. Given himself for the sake of living again, given himself to inflict a suffering twice fold in Ennor, instead of the bliss of Valinor. Gave himself for his people. 

Through the Ruin of Doriath, the Fall of Gondolin, the Sack of Sirion, to the Kinslayings at Alqualondë. Kin against kin, people against people. There Glorfindel found purpose. There Glorfindel found that for once, in the histories of the world, kin had died for kin, people died for people, of their own will, by their own hand. The harmony of Arda restored, thus Arda was Unmade, yet Remade. Arda Marred. 

So he went back, back to Ennore, back to his purpose, to a new life. An equilibrium. To serve again. 

And it was comfort for him to know that even the greatest of the eldalië grieve. 

*   
[1] The Gondolindrim were celebrating a festival on the date of attack, and were thus out on the walls awaiting the sunrise, as was customary. 

[2] The "Gates of Summer" was the name of the festival. 

[3] Elven Tirion: Quote the Silmarillion, Fall of Gondolin: _But Turgon was become proud, and Gondolin as beautiful as a memory of Elven Tirion, and he trusted still in its secret and impregnable strength, though even a Vala should gainsay it; and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad the people of that city desired never again to mingle in the woes of Elves and Men without, nor to return through dread and danger into the West._

[4] Idril's passageway out of Gondolin lead north, upwards towards the highest peaks of the mountains, which also brought them closer to Angband. 


End file.
